


Unless you want him dead

by Jaxon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cokeworth, Don't copy to another site, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 12:40:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18142310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxon/pseuds/Jaxon
Summary: Eileen lives like a Muggle.  She might be magical, but she lives in Cokeworth, and there's laws about that sort of thing.She's not remotely tempted.Not until Tobias gets sick.  Really sick.





	Unless you want him dead

Eileen sat him down at the small table, and quietly explained about the laws. Tobias' frown grew deeper as she told him that she was unable to conjure necessities such as food or drink, and she couldn't help but smile at his scowl when he realised that the large piles of conjured notes and coins he'd been fantasising about ever since she'd revealed she was a witch weren't going to eventuate.

"It doesn't work that way," she said.

He took her to church of a weekend, and he'd watch her out of the corner of his eye whilst they prayed. 

"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us," he would say, his voice getting louder throughout the prayer, "and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…" 

It wasn't that he didn't believe her. Oh, he believed her - but he couldn't see the point. It was one thing to be condemned to a life in the bowels of hell for her deviancy, but it was another to not profit from it. 

She'd attended a magical school. Not like the ones around Cokeworth - not like the secondary he and his brothers went to. It sounded more like the grammar school up the road, which focused on History and French and Latin. Academic subjects - not anything which provided a trade. Not like Tobias, with his carpentry and metalwork. 

Pity, really. She hadn't been taught the practical skills that his peers had; she couldn't tailor his clothes, or even darn his socks, and she was only just getting used to ironing his shirts. 

In fact, there was only one chore that she was any good at – and that was lighting a fire.

It had always been his most hated job, but after his dad died, it became his designated chore back at home. He’d get up before everyone else, and briskly stamp through the freezing house, his fingers numb as he took yesterday’s ashes outside. If he was unlucky, the wind would whistle through the backs and whip the grey contents up into his face.

He hated fiddling about with scrunched up newspaper, and sticks, and fanning the flames until the coal ignited. He hated the dirt, and the cold, and the fact that he never quite felt the benefit of his efforts, as he was off to work a short time later.

So he did appreciate her uncanny ability to point that weird stick and create flames. It’s just, it didn’t seem _much_. Not when you consider that they’d sold their souls to the devil.

But then one day, Tobias was sick.  _Really_ sick. 

They were already hungry. It would’ve helped if the little one would feed, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – latch on, and she didn’t know how to coax him. Their money wasn’t going far, but now with formula at the top of the shopping list, they were reduced to robbing Peter to pay Paul. The coal man hadn’t been paid for the past fortnight, and there was only so much slack they could throw at the fire, magic flames or not.

He couldn’t seem to get his missus to understand that if she just put a little less powder in the bairn’s bottle, a tin would last longer than a week. She told him that she was already using half the recommended dose, and the boy pitches a fit when she waters it down further, his tiny face screwed up in a red temper – but Tobias doesn’t believe it; as if a little mite like that could even tell the difference.

Potatoes were scarce again this year – cold weather led to a late and light crop, and the price was through the roof. He’s almost forgotten that meat doesn’t have to come from a can, jellied on each edge. Fair play to Eileen, she can make bread and dripping and eggs and cheese go a long way. It’s just, for a working man, it’s not enough - even if she does manage to keep a tin of fruit cocktail and condensed milk for afters on a Sunday.

It started with a cough. Hoarse and dry, deep in his lungs.

"It’s that cotton dust," she said, a frown deepening on her forehead.

"Mmm," he grunted, noncommittally. And what if it was? He could hardly stop going to work, could he?

But it wasn’t the cotton dust. Not this time. It was the wind, and the rain, and the chill that seeped through his old coat with the broken fastenings. He wasn’t the only one – Mick and Harry and Johnny and Pete, David and Jim Brown, and even young Lenny. And if a strapping lad like Lenny went down with pneumonia at 23, then what hope was there for Tobias?

"He’ll be off for at least three weeks," the doctor had said, and his voice hardened when he saw Eileen’s eyes widen. "And unless you want him dead, he stays off. He’ll tell you he’s fine to work, but if he gets caught in the damp again…"

They’re six weeks behind with the coal now, and she needs it more than ever. Sick pay doesn’t kick in until Tobias has been off for five days, and being five days behind might just push them over the edge.

She knows she shouldn’t, but she must – so she takes her wand, and when Barry Jones knocks at the door, his face and fingers and forearms covered in coal dust, she uses it. It’s been years since she felt that vibrant thrill of magic spilling through her veins; a few flames in the morning just can’t compare.

"Right, that’s yer paid up in advance ‘til next month," Barry said, patting his trouser pockets. "Thanks agen, Mrs Snape, I knew yer and Tobes were good fer it and wunt let me down."

He strolled down the street, and she’s struck by guilt, knowing that Barry will be beside himself when he counts his money at the end of the round and realises that he’s considerably down. But then she shook her head and pushed the pang of shame deep down into her stomach; she’s got her own boys to think about. She reasons the same as she hurries through the high street, visiting the butcher and the baker and the greengrocer, shopping at all three without her purse.

It had been a long time since she brewed, but she knew this process was similar. "Chicken soup for the soul," Mrs Laycock had told her. "There’s minerals and nutrients in the bones, and the collagen, and don’t forget to save the scraps from your vegetables!" This is what passes for magic in the Muggle world, Eileen thought, as she kept the cauldron on a steady boil day after day, hour after hour. The steaming broth tasted well enough, but despite the many promises, didn’t seem to shift Tobias’ illness.

He was a giant of a man, Tobias. He was her burly bloke, with his thick arms, and gruff voice - and seeing him lying shivering in their bed, a permanent line of sweat fixed above his eyebrows, was the last straw. She didn't know much about Muggle ailments, and she couldn't quite remember what the Statute of Secrecy has to say about sharing potions with Muggles, but Eileen didn't care; she couldn't lose him.

The bedroom was dark and the air stale, but she crept in and placed a mug of fresh tea on his bedside table. She kissed his lips softly, chastely, and touched his roughened unshaven cheek fondly. "I’ll be back in a while," she murmured, as he shifted restlessly in his sleep. "I’ve got the little one with me."

And that’s when young Severus sees Diagon Alley for the first time. He didn’t like Apparating - the swirl of colours before his eyes, and the sickening drop in his stomach – but he did like the sounds, and sights, and smells of the wizarding world, and his grin is the widest that Eileen has ever seen on her tiny boy. Their visit was fleeting; her ingredient list was long, but her purse quickly ran dry. Unlike the Muggles, an Obliviate here wouldn’t do the trick, so she did what was required to save her husband, and pawned her gold band.

And then, back at Spinner’s End, she brewed.

Two days later – and thirteen days earlier than expected – Tobias returned to work.

"I lost it when I was washing up," she said, defensively, as she saw his gaze lock on to her left hand as he shovelled the last of the broth into his mouth. She folded her fingers into her palm knowing that the thin white strip of skin across her finger had already betrayed her. "When you were sick. Severus was carrying on, as he does and-"

"-saw Barry in t’street earlier," Tobias interrupted. "Reckons we’s paid up ‘til next month." He stood, and put his cleared bowl in the kitchen sink, washing his hands and forearms in the greasy water, and then drying them off on the nearest towel. "Yer did a good job of gettin’ me right wi’ that soup stuff."

"Mrs Laycock told me about it. You put bones and scraps in and all sorts, all things that would’ve gone to waste."

He nodded. "Yer should give it the boy. He’s a growin’ lad." He stilled. "Not jus’ the soup though, was it, Leen?"

"Toby…"

"…it was them witchy brews, wasn't it?"

"You can’t tell anyone. There’s rules."

"I know ‘bout the rules," he huffed. "But yer did a good job wi’ the coal an’ all. Was right freezin’ an’ I thought Barry’d cut us off fer sure."

She didn’t dare look at him.

"So," he continued loudly, "I think I’ll pull apart the plumbin’ of the sink. I’ll probably find yer ring dead easy." He paused. "Might not be this month, but I reckon that by summer I might’ve dug it out for yer."

Good to his word, four months later, Tobias found her ring. He jumped up from under the sink, the ring between his fingers, with that broad cheeky grin that she’d fallen in love with plastered across his face. He placed the band onto her naked ring finger, and swung her around as she laughed – her peals of amusement only growing stronger as she saw that in his haste, he’d left the Ratners bag on the worktop.


End file.
